It’s funny how a single thing can change the course of a life. Like a winning lottery ticket or those three special words said by that special someone. For me, the thing was a dream. And no, it wasn’t an inspiring vision for the future or some prophetic harbinger of doom to come. Nope, my dream seemed completely innocuous. Weird, but harmless. I dreamed of a tea party and a talking teddy bear.
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A small table was set with a lovely array of fancy tea cups and plates and fancy silverware. A sculpted white teapot inlaid with silver designs rested next to a platter of tarts and cookies and all manner of goodies. It looked like the sort of posh snack that the Queen of England would have enjoyed with guests.
I thought it looked like something I would try very hard not to break and then not do that. I could already hear the shattering of glass.
I was seated on an embroidered cushion, cross-legged, like a monk in a very my-kneecaps-are-about-to-fall-off-at-any-time way. Across the table, on a cushion of its own, was a brown teddy bear with a pink bow tie. With a digitless, stuffed arm, the teddy picked up the teapot and poured me some tea. Now, this being a dream and me having a very active imagination, I played along. My dreams were often strange and nonsensical.
“Why, thank you, Mr. Bear.” I accepted the cup. It was hot. The smell was delicious if entirely unidentifiable.
“You are most welcome.” The bear spoke in a voice that was neither male nor female. It was layered, like a dozen voices speaking in harmony, but not in a creepy way. “I’m so glad you could join me for tea.” It poured itself a cup.
I sipped the tea. The flavour that hit my tongue wasn’t a flavour, it was experiences. A warm hug, a game-winning touchdown, a sunny day at the beach, a first kiss. If I had been awake, I think the pure, unfettered myriad of emotions would have exploded my brain. Instead, I said. “Yum.”
There was a trace of humour in the bear’s voice. “Yum? That is your comment?”
I shrugged. “Uh, I guess so.”
“Intriguing.” The bear sipped the tea. At least, I thought it was. It was hard to tell if it was drinking or just dumping hot leaf juice over its fuzzy plush face.
I noticed that the little tea table was alone. There was a circular rug of seemingly every colour woven into an intricate design beneath the table and the cushions, but beyond that was an empty, white expanse. A void. “Nice place you have here, Mr. Bear.”
The bear tipped its head. “Yes, it was kind of you to come here.”
I tried one of the tarts, thinking it would taste like condensed awesomeness. It was raspberry.
“I invite lots of people to my tea parties, but no one comes.” The bear looked sad. That was dumb, its face was blank and unmoving.
“Why not? This is nice.” I said. “A little sparse on the décor, but it’s roomy. I think.”
The bear looked up at me. “No one can find their way to join me.”
“That’s strange. Why didn’t they just look up the address?”
The empty stare of the black beads the bear had for eyes bore into me. “How did you come to find my tea party?”
My brow furrowed as I chewed thoughtfully on a macaroon. Crumbs dotted my chin. “I uh came through the door…” I had a hard time remembering for some reason. Oh well. It was a dream. What did it matter?
The bear continued to stare at me.
The tea set was the only thing in the white space. I turned around to look over my shoulder. I squinted. Nothing. No door.
Why did I remember a door, so clearly? An old door, big… and covered in…
I couldn’t remember what it looked like.
The bear put its cup down on the saucer. “Oh dear. It seems as if the tea has run out.”
I looked down into my cup. No tea.
The bear flopped over on its side, limp and inanimate.
Oh, I thought. It died.
I stood. The table, the rug, the cushions, the tea set, it all started to stretch and shrink like it was being pulled away at a high speed, but I was seeing it in slow motion.
The white void was getting darker, the darkness of sleep.
The voice spoke to me again. There was no more bear, just the presence. It. “Visit me again, Arthur Hardwick. I’ll have pizza.”
My eyelids dropped heavily.
Sleep.
I hadn’t even registered that It knew my name.
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I didn’t even remember the dream when I woke up. I was rested and refreshed, ready to start the day and continue my job hunt. Just another normal day.
Wrong!
The whole fiasco started that day. It was the fall after I graduated high school. I’d just moved from the country to the bustling metropolis that is Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. That’s in Canada. Anyway, Saskatoon is actually pretty small and rather trashy and there’s not much to do. Again, it’s in Saskatchewan.
I was looking for work because after twelve years of school, I did not want to go to university. The job hunt didn’t go well. I only got called in for one interview and blew it when I accidentally knocked an entire pot of fresh coffee on the interviewer. I should mention that I’m pretty much the clumsiest guy in the world, maybe all of them.
So, I was down on my luck and my savings from working as maintenance at my hometown’s rink were disappearing quickly. I could only afford a month more of rent in my tiny, one-bed, half-bath, one kitchen/living room/laundry room/everything else basement suite. I needed to find something and fast.
However, it was the something that found me.
It began slowly. I began noticing strange things. Just little things, like a mouse with a pencil or a missing person’s poster on a telephone pole except the person missing was a crocodile with a bowler hat.
I didn’t pay them much attention and chalked it up to a bag of expired gummy fruit snacks I had found under my bed earlier that week. I was broke. I wasn’t about to let a gourmet meal like that pass me by.
The first red flag popped up late one night when I was lounging in front of the TV, doing my best impression of a coma patient, when I heard a noise outside. Now, normally I don’t investigate strange noises at night. (Thank you Scooby-Doo for my overdeveloped ability to sense spookiness and then hide under the nearest pillow) But this noise was really odd. It was like a zap followed by a stretch and then a loud fwhump. Then, I could hear movement outside the window. I pressed my face against the small basement window and looked out at ground height. The sun had set and all was shadowed, but I could make out a pair of feet. Not normal feet, they didn’t have shoes. They were long and wider at the front than the back, covered in a brown-grey hair. Somewhere in my mind, I knew I should recognize those feet, but I had never seen them at that size before. And once I heard the voice, feet were all forgotten.
The mystery figure’s voice was Australian, I think. Heavy accent. Sounded male. “Where am I? Ah, crikey, that drongo sent me to the wrong place.” The voice muttered some more profanities and insults as they set down a strange-looking bag. It looked like a high-tech army backpack and strapped to the side, broken down into several parts was a sniper rifle.
The noise I made was one I’m glad no one was around to hear.
I watched as the figure rummaged around in the bag, before grunting. “Target’s three bloody klicks away! How the hell am I supposed to take out the target if I’m across the city?”
I was frozen in fear. Target? Take out? A sniper rifle? Was this an assassin?
Before I could confirm that very likely theory, the figure picked up the bag, growled and then bounced away. He didn’t walk. Or run. He bounced, jumping several meters with ease, clearing the fence to the back alley. As he vanished, I saw his silhouette and thought my marbles were rolling away from me at that very moment. The shadow looked suspiciously like Bugs Bunny.
“I must be tired.”
I took five aspirin and went to bed.
When I woke up the next morning, I had convinced myself it had been a dream. I was feeling good. Everything was normal. Nothing weird at all.
So naturally, that day, the weirdness got even worse.
I went for a jog. As I huffed and puffed my way down the sidewalk in my bright green sweatpants, the wind started to pick up. The sky was overcast and looked like it was about to rain, or maybe snow. It could be either up in Sask. I shivered under my bunnyhug. Normally, I didn’t get too cold, but the wind was sending chills down my back. The clouds above looked particularly nasty, forming great grey fortresses in the sky, ready to unleash the fury of Mother Nature.
There wasn’t too much traffic at 2:00, so it was pretty quiet. I had just gotten to the park past Cumberland when a strange sound reached my ears. It was a motor, but not one I’d ever heard. Lots of times, I’d see a lifted truck rip by down the street, or a douchy-looking car without a muffler, but this didn’t sound anything like them. It almost sounded like helicopter rotors, but like if someone was playing the sound through a fan, giving it that weird, warbly, tinny sound. Confused, I glanced down the street, but the only thing I saw was an old, beat-up blue Saturn driven by an old Asian lady. That thing certainly wasn’t making the racket.
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I probably muttered something smart, like, “That’s not it.” And then I saw a shape speeding down the street beyond the Saturn. Now, I’ve got pretty good eye-sight, but I had to squint because what I saw made no sense. Driving toward me, weaving all over the road at a speed that could only mean the driver had no regard for human life, was a giant lobster.
Wait a minute, I thought, lobsters can’t drive. Ah, the good old days when logic actually worked. But unfortunately, things were just beginning to get weird.
The lobster was fifteen feet long, seven or eight tall, bright red and speeding my way on thick, studded tires. Its two eyes glowed like headlights as its giant pincers snapped at the air. Two exhaust pipes like you’d see on semis stuck out behind its head.
As I stared in open-mouthed disbelief, the lobster raced up behind the Saturn until it was practically on its rear bumper and peeled out beside it, before zooming past. The right pincer slammed into the side of the car and scraped along the length of it, leaving behind a nasty scratch.
And the weirdest part, somehow, was that the little Asian woman didn’t even notice. She didn’t move when her car was jostled and there was no reaction on her face when the massive crustacean roared past her.
“Lobster!” I yelled as it flew past me with the scent of sea brine and exhaust.
As quickly as it had come, it raced past, flying down Taylor. I was left staring, wondering if I was dreaming. The Saturn rolled past and the lady gave me a quizzical look, before shaking her head.
Before I could figure it out, I heard the sound of another motor, this one more familiar. I glanced back the way the lobster had come and saw a black and purple motorbike speeding my way. The person riding it was clad in similarly coloured leathers with patches of armour-like padding and a shiny black helmet. Even the visor was black.
Back the other way, there was the screeching of brakes. I jumped and turned to see the lobster sliding to a stop down the street, before wheeling around and tearing back in my direction. Behind it, I could see another identical motorbike.
“They’re chasing it? That’s not how you catch lobsters.” Then I imagined them dragging a giant crab cage down the street and figured they probably had the right idea.
I looked on in wonder as the lobster car tried to speed away from the bike approaching it, but the first one I had seen had come up behind it. Instead of hitting the brakes again, the lobster revved its helicopter engine, which sent plumes of dark red smoke billowing out of its smokestacks and floored it. The first biker didn’t slow. The two vehicles raced toward a head-on collision.
With mere moments to spare, the biker reached down and pulled out a gun. It wasn’t like one I’d ever seen. From the little I could glimpse, it had a weird, elongated barrel that glowed yellow. The biker brought it up and fired at the lobster. With a crackling zap, like someone had plugged in too many Christmas lights and blown a fuse, a beam of yellow energy spat out and struck the lobster, which began to glow as well, but it didn’t stop. I was sure the biker was about to be crushed, but then, dark cracks appeared in the glowing lobster and it suddenly dissolved into sparks with a squeal. The biker slid to a halt as dark dust rained down into a pile in the middle of the street. As they got off their bike, the second one rolled to a stop beside them. Both of the dark-clothed individuals walked over to the pile of ash. I noticed the other also had a zappy gun. One of them knelt down and brushed their hand through the dust until they pulled out a small shape. I couldn’t make it out, some sort of capsule or canister.
“That it?” the one still standing asked. Their voice was modulated through the helmet.
“Yeah,” the other said. “That’s all of em. Now we just have to do clean up.”
The first biker nodded and hefted their gun.
A sinking feeling grew in my stomach as I watched, but before anything could happen, I felt a hand on my shoulder.
“Whoa!” I pulled away to see an older man in a red plaid jacket looking at me. He had a short grey beard, short hair and big, square glasses over top warm brown eyes. A black umbrella hung off one arm by the crook.
“Easy there, fella. Didn’t mean to startle you.”
My heart hammering in my chest, I stammered incoherently and began to turn back to the bikers.
The man’s face took on a worried edge and he grabbed my arm. “You don’t want to be doing that, son.”
Now normally, I didn’t let strangers touch me, but my brain was currently coming up with Error 404, so I didn’t stop him.
The man put on a smile again, but whispered, “You can’t let them know you see.” Something in his eyes lent weight to the statement. To the proclamation of unknown danger. He slid the umbrella off his arm and gripped it in his hand tightly.
“Whaaa…”
“C’mon, let’s go hit up 8th,” the man said, loud enough for the bikers to hear. “I’ve got some shopping to do.” He began leading me away and I followed, too stunned for much else. As we went, I could hear some mechanical clicking noises and a whirring, but I didn’t look back. After we had reached the next street and turned left, the man let go of me. “Close one.” He finally relaxed his grip on the umbrella and hung it back on his arm.
I shook my head like I was trying to clear away the grogginess of a sleepless night. “What was that? And who are you?”
The man spread his hands. “I am-”
“And who were they?” I cut him off.
“They were-”
“And what was the lobster?”
The man crossed his arms. “Can you not do that?”
I think I may have screamed in his face. He didn’t like that. In my defense, no sane person would have responded normally to an evaporating lobster car.
Eventually, the older man managed to explain. “My name is Walter Spade. I’m a barber, but that’s not what you care about. Look, I honestly can’t explain the lobster, that was new for me, but you weren’t supposed to see any of that.”
“What do you mean?”
“The world’s a crazy place, son. There’s lots of things out there that most people aren’t aware of and some things they can’t be aware of. Guess you’re one of the Unlucky Ones.”
“Unlucky Ones? Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
Walter rolled his eyes. “If you want to feel better, go see a shrink. But they’ll have you on all kinds of meds for seeing this. And trust me, you don’t need that.”
I had the sudden urge to take up alcoholism.
“Look, I don’t know why, not sure if anyone does, but some people can just see things others can’t. There’s a whole unseen reality that exists alongside the one most people know as life. And it is infinitely weirder. And once you’ve seen it, well, there’s no going back.” He spat the last few words out with a dark expression.
I felt like I was shrinking into my shoes, even without the shrink telling me I was mental.
Walter continued. “This other reality isn’t just weird, it’s dangerous. Those bikers back there, the Bitter Saints. They’re right nasty pieces of work.”
“I think the Catholics forgot to mention those ones,” I muttered.
Walter smirked, his eyes warming again momentarily before he frowned. “They think they’re in control of the Other Life out here. They have…untasteful customs. And they certainly don’t like visitors.”
I didn’t like the way he said visitors. Somehow I doubted he meant Americans.
“You can’t ever let them know you see them,” Walter said. “No matter what they do.”
“Oh boy.”
Walter smiled sadly. “Sorry. I don’t have all the answers you want. And some answers I’m unwilling to give. But you’re going to need some help.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled flier for a pizza place called the Red Pineapple. “Go there. You can tell them what happened. They’ll help you out.”
“I’ve never heard of it,” I said. “Is it any good?” I know I should have been worried about bigger things, but what can I say? I like me a good slice of pizza.
“Dunno. I’m lactose intolerant. Don’t eat pizza.”
“Your loss.”
Walter handed me the flier. There was an address and a number beneath the logo of, surprise surprise, a red pineapple. “You can trust them to keep you safe, at least as long as you don’t do anything stupid.”
That sucked for me because stupid was my middle name.
I heard the sound of bike engines roaring to life. Walter did too. He gripped his umbrella. “Time to go,” he said. “Just keep your head down whenever you see the strange and you’ll get by.” I barely caught the last word he mumbled. “Hopefully.”
And with that, the barber left me out on the street with nothing but a head full of nightmares, an ad for a pizza place and the early signs of a nervous breakdown.
I managed to make my way home and stumble into the shower, where I tried to grasp what my life had just become until the water went cold. I probably couldn’t have even afforded the water bill but luckily rent was going to be the least of my problems. After that, I’m not even sure what happened. It’s quite possible I passed out.
The next day started great because I had forgotten all about the strange encounter. So naturally, my great mood came to a screeching halt when the memories came flooding back halfway through my bowl of Frosted Flakes. I immediately ran to the window and peeked outside. The street was normal, quiet. A few cars rolled past as a woman jogged down the walk with her Bernese on a leash. Across the way, my neighbour was sifting through mail on his front step. There was nothing around that showed any signs of the absolute weirdness I had experienced the previous day.
I’m not gonna lie, I was too scared to leave the house that day. I tried to forget by scrolling online, but that ended quickly after I was recommended a video on lobster fishing. I decided to do the smart thing and research, so I fired up the laptop and did some Googling. All I could find for the Bitter Saints was some terrible indie band with two songs to their credit and searching the lobster car only got me seafood and a rather long list of food-inspired motor vehicles. I particularly liked the Weinermobile and the Nutmobile. At least I had some results for the Red Pineapple. It was apparently a local restaurant over by 33rd that had a wide variety of options, other than pizza. After staring at the menu for a while, I decided to order a pizza, to test them out. If they were going to know about all this crazy stuff, they should at least have good food. I tried using a food delivery service, but they didn’t appear as an option, so I had to call. I hate using the phone to call people. I’d rather use the telegram or smoke signals. I dialled the number and waited.
“Red Pineapple, can I take your order?” The voice was male and rather upbeat.
“Uh, yeah. Can I have a small loaded pizza? Hold the mushrooms.”
“For sure. Anything else?”
I looked at my nearly empty fridge and then at my spending money jar. There were fourteen dollars in it. “Nah, that’s good.”
“Cool. That’ll be $12.95,” the guy said. Then, in a quick whisper, I heard him say something in a strange language. “Protect, Banish, Disguise.”
I froze for a moment. “What was that?”
“What was what?”
“What you just said?”
“That’ll be $12.95.” The guy sounded confused.
“No, no. The other thing. After that.”
“I didn’t say anything after.”
“Yes, you did.”
“No, I didn’t.” The guy’s voice had taken on a weird edge to it, almost like he was afraid and trying to hide it. That freaked me out.
“I guess I’m just hearing things,” I squeaked. “Thanks.”
The pizza guy took a moment to reply. “No problem. Your food should be there in a half-hour.”
Click.
I was so weirded out that I didn’t realize I had never given him my address until way later.
Twenty-seven minutes later, a car pulled up. It was a normal-looking two-door car, painted red, but I didn’t recognize the model. Or see a logo, for that matter. Out of the car stepped a short, stocky dude with a massive chin. Seriously, I had never seen a bigger one. Small planes could have used it as a landing strip. His T-shirt was red with a pineapple on it as was his ball cap. He was carrying an insulated bag and I noticed he had cool, spiral tattoos on his forearms. He stomped up the walk to my front door, hopped up the three steps and rang the doorbell.
Plucking up my courage, I opened the door.
“Pizza.” He growled.
“Hi, thanks.” I took the warm box from him and dropped all fourteen dollars in his hand.
Without another word, the delivery guy stomped back to the car. I watched from the door as he got in, fiddled with the dash, got some tunes pumping and peeled out of my driveway.
Slinking back inside, I locked the door and walked across my tiny house to the table, where I set the pizza down. The red pineapple on the lid stared at me as if it was daring me to open it and eat the pizza. I could almost hear it. And I could smell it, the savoury, greasy scent of meat and onions and peppers fried on saucy dough and draped with a blanket of gooey mozzarella. My mouth began watering.
I couldn’t resist. It smelled too good. Also, I had spent all my spare cash on it, so I wasn’t gonna flush that down the drain. I popped the lid and stared at the pizza. It looked great. Normal. No lobsters or eyeballs or anything else strange could be found. I figured there was a fifty-fifty it was laced with LSD. But with how I was already tripping, I just went for it.
It was amazing. Before I could realize it, I had devoured the whole thing. It was a small, and I was a hungry, broke kid.
And then, like the food-fuelled kid I was, I made an impulsive decision.
Tomorrow, I would go check out the Red Pineapple. “A place that makes such good pizza can’t be that weird.”
I have never been so wrong in my life.